


The Trial

by anonymousmadame2911



Series: The Blue Hippo and the Pink Pussycat [13]
Category: Chris Evans (actor) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, F/M, Job Loss, anxiety attack, trial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 11:09:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19904764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousmadame2911/pseuds/anonymousmadame2911
Summary: We're takin' Louis to court.





	The Trial

The judge granted Peter Schonfeld, your lawyer, a delay of a year. The victims would take the stand first and Louis’s defense would cross-examine. At first, you felt confident taking the stand. You had agreed with your lawyer to take the stand. The other three victims would remain anonymous. In the mean time, you kept up with your routine. You went to the Blue Hippo and the Pink Pussycat. Chris would text you “Good morning” every morning and check in with you once before he went to bed, which was sometimes at 3 or 4 am. After a few months, he came to visit you. Schonfeld suggested that you keep a low profile and keep your image clean for the benefit of future jurors. Chris had agreed. He wouldn’t visit you where you worked, but he insisted on seeing you. You met up at Starbucks off of Central Park at 2 pm on a Sunday. 

“How’s the case going?”

“You know I’m not really supposed to talk about that. He thinks we have a good case, but I’m not so sure about that.”

“Hm.”

“How’s filming going?”

“My new movie that you know nothing about?”

You laughed. 

“Well, YOU said you signed an NDA and that you couldn’t talk about it. So…tell me something you CAN talk about. How about…where’s a place you’ve always wanted to visit?”

“In the whole world?”

“In the whole world? Probably just home. Just stay home and sleep for a few days and enjoy a few cups of coffee without my phone ringing or my agent pulling on me or my publicist telling me to do something.”

“OH MY GOD! Are you Chris Evans?!” a fan shrieked.

“Wha—nonono! He gets that all the time. Isn’t he filming in Denmark anyways?”

“Oh. Right,” the woman simpered.

The two of you walked on around the park. 

“So I guess people are always pulling on you, asking you for something…telling you what to do…?”

“Comes with the territory.”

“It must be draining…annoying…tough to keep your cool?”

“Yeah…sometimes…what are you—why are you saying it like that?”

“No reason,” you smirked at him. 

“Why do I have a feeling you’re up to something?”

“I’m not,” you replied innocently.

“Hm.”

“Ok. Actually. I am. I need your advice. What am I supposed to do about my contract with the studio?”

He sucked in a sharp breath. 

“Unfortunately. You have to stick it out.”

That hit you right in the gut. You never were the type to cry. But God were you frustrated.

“What am I supposed to do? I can’t work with him.”

You struggled to compose yourself. You bit your lip. You tried to focus on the tree across the street, the people walking on the sidewalk. Anything to distract you, but the tears fell down your cheeks. You sat down on a bench and stared at the ground. You rubbed your chest, trying to get rid of the pinching and pulling in your chest. 

“Uh. I’m sorry. I have to go. My shift is starting soon.”

You jumped off the bench and strode to the subway station. It whisked you back to your apartment. You popped off your shoes, peeled off your leggings and hoodie and slipped under your covers. You had a few hours to take a nap. 

Louis went on the defense. The National Enquirer and the New York Post printed photos of your routines at the Blue Hippo and the Pink Pussycat. As if a woman in a bikini was scandalous. The way these tabloids splashed your photos all over the front pages made you think they had NEVER posted photos of celebrities in their bikinis. The level of hypocrisy pissed you off to no end. You had been forced out of your jobs because of the paparazzi and the ensuing attention. You lost your appetite. You had no other source of income. Schonfeld suggested that you sue your employers for wrongful termination. The date of the trial was a month away and Louis had won. He had won. You had no job. You would be forced to work with him again. He would get his way. Chris texted you and sometimes he would call. But you weren’t feeling it. You knew he was being nice. He was trying to be a good friend. You didn’t have the strength to maintain your friendships. You could barely function and take care of yourself. You were lucky if you could brush your teeth and shower on a daily basis. Sasha and Lucy forced themselves into your life. They were smart. They brought you little things to eat. They knew what your weakness was—a good cup of coffee. They’d bring you a cup of that fancy vacuum-pressed Starbucks Reserve West Java coffee and a scone. Or a doppio espresso with a cookie. It wasn’t much, but they were grateful that you were eating. No one in the black community talked about depression or going to therapy. But here you were. Neck deep in depression with no one to talk to.  
A week until you had to testify and you had doubts about being on the stand. Schonfeld prepped you. Chris gave you loads of encouragement, telling you to listen to and trust your lawyer. However, doubts crept in on a daily basis. What if the jury didn’t believe you? Louis had won once. He would win again. He had all the money in the world. He had already destroyed your life. What difference did it make if you testified or not? You couldn’t sleep a wink the entire night before you were set to testify. You felt your nerves in the bones in your fingers and the knot in your stomach. You spent the entire hour in Schonfeld’s bathroom throwing up. By the time, you made it to the courthouse, you had composed yourself. Once on the stand, you began to shiver because of the temperature of the room. Before your lawyer could question you, the judge did. 

“How long have you been in this state?”

“State?”

“Shaking? Sick?”

“Shaking or sick?”

“Shaking.”

“Shaking since a few minutes ago.”

“How about sick?”

“Since this morning.”

“How many times have you thrown up?”

“About 15 times.”

“In the past hour?”

“Just 7 times in the past hour. 15 times in the past 2 hours.”

“OK. Please step down. Bailiff, please help her down.”

Your shivering had turned into a full-body shake complete with teeth chattering. You dry-heaved a few times in between his questions. 

“But…have I done something wrong?”

“No ma’am. Just have a seat next to your lawyer please.”

“No. Please. I can testify. I can do it.”

“I know you can. We’ll do it at a different time when you feel better.”

The bailiff led you back to your lawyer and waited to hear what the judge decided. 

“We are going to postpone testimony today. We’re going to call the EMTs because the witness is clearly under extreme stress. For future testimony, cameras will be banned from the courtroom and will be restricted from within 500 feet of the court house.”

Gasps rippled throughout the courtroom. You slumped against the table.

“Peter, what does this mean?”

“It means you’re going to testify on a different day.”

The EMTs walked into the room and approached you.

“Ma’am. We’re here to check you out. How are you feeling?”

“Good,” you said weakly, stunned by this turn of events.

“We’re going to take some vitals. How many times have you been sick in the past hour?”

“Seven?”

“And in the past two hours?”

“15?”

“You sound like you’re not sure about that.”

“18.”

“Can you walk on your own?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. Let’s see. We’re going to walk to the ambulance right outside.”

You slowly stood up, suddenly hit with a woozy spell. You walked out of the room between the two EMTs. You gingerly climbed into the back of the ambulance and reclined on the gurney.

“Is there anyone we should call? Emergency contact?”

“No. I don’t have any family.”

“How about friends?”

“They’re busy. They have jobs.”

“We still have to take you to the emergency room for observation.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t. I don’t have health insurance. I can’t afford it. Please. Please! I refuse treatment. I refuse treatment.”

“Ma’am. If you don’t calm down, we’ll be forced to sedate you. We’ll give you a free ride.”

An hour later, you were sat in the ER talking to your nurse, a middle-aged man who had served at the tail-end of Vietnam. He joked with you that the saline solution was white grape juice to keep you hydrated. You heard the skittering of curtains being pulled back and forth getting closer and closer to your bed. Sasha’s curly head burst through your curtain. 

“Jesus Christ! Your lawyer fuckin’ called me. I thought you were dead!”

“Watch your language please,” the nurse admonished.

“Sorry. Are you ok?”

“She will be. She just needs some hydration and rest.”

“What happened?!”

“I don’t know. I just kept getting sick. It wouldn’t stop. Then the judge kicked me out of the courtroom!”

“Of course! You are such a drama queen,” she laughed at you.

The nurse stepped away to check on other patients. Sasha pulled a familiar brown paper bag from her bag. 

“Here. Eat this. We need to get you out of here. They re-set your testimony for tomorrow. You got this.”

You quickly shoved the petite vanilla bean scones down your throat. You inhaled all three little scones before the nurse returned. You and Sasha both looked at your bag as your phone vibrated. You ignored it. 

“Get it! It’s probably your lawyer. It’s important I bet.”

“It’s…Chris? How does everyone know what happened?”

“Use your brain. You saw all those journalists in the courtroom.”

“Fuck. He said he’s…flying in?”

“Girl! That man loves you.”

“Stop. He doesn’t. He’s just being a good friend.”

“A good friend who enjoys fucking the shit out of you,” she whispered.

“Stop! He doesn’t.”

“He does and he did! Or have you forgotten?! Anyways, Lucy said she’s really sorry she couldn’t be here. She’s up for a promotion and her boss is scrutinizing her every move. Can you believe it?! 5 years ago, she would have never gone for a promotion. Little Lucy has got teeth!”

You smiled, grateful for Sasha. She always knew how to make you feel like yourself again. A few hours later, after another vitals check from your nurse and a visit from Peter, you were released from the hospital. You returned to your apartment to see Chris sitting on the front steps. He had two pizza boxes from Marco’s on his lap. 

“Chris. I don’t believe it. I know you said you were coming but I didn’t really believe you.”

“You needed me. So I’m here.”

You burst into tears and curled into his chest. 

“Let’s get inside before your neighbors complain.”

You sniffled and opened the front door. You walked up the four flights of stairs to your apartment and let him in. He held you while you made a mess of his blue sweater. Did he have an entire closet dedicated to blue sweaters? 

“Come on. Let’s eat. You need your strength for tomorrow. I can’t believe how severe your anxiety attack was.”

“Anxiety attack…?”

It struck you like a thunderbolt. He was right. You had been hospitalized for your anxiety attack. You went to bed early with Chris curled around you. You slept like the dead. You woke considerably refreshed, nervous but without the constant urge to throw up. You kissed Chris quietly, leaving him in your bed. You knew today you would take the stand. You would be the nail in Louis’s coffin.


End file.
